“I’ve learned to accept the world as it is, Amaram,” Sadeas said, turning his horse. “That’s something very few people are willing to do. They stumble along, hoping, dreaming, pretending. That doesn’t change a single storming thing in life. You have to stare the world in the eyes, in all its grimy brutality. You have to acknowledge its depravities. Live with them. It’s the only way to accomplish anything meaningful.”
With a squeeze of the knees, Sadeas started his horse forward, leaving Amaram behind for the moment.
The man would remain loyal. Sadeas and Amaram had an understanding. Even Amaram now being a Shardbearer would not change that.
As Sadeas and his vanguard approached Hatham’s army, he noticed a group of Parshendi on a nearby plateau, watching. Those scouts of theirs were getting bold. He sent a team of archers to go chase them off, then rode toward a figure in resplendent Shardplate at the front of Hatham’s army: the highprince himself, seated upon a Ryshadium. Damnation. Those animals were far superior to any other horseflesh. How to get one?
“Sadeas?” Hatham called out to him. “What have you done here?”
After a quick moment of decision, Sadeas lifted his arm back and hurled the gemheart across the plateau separating them. It hit the rock near Hatham and bounced along in a roll, glowing faintly.
“I was bored,” Sadeas shouted back. “I thought I’d save you some trouble.”
Then, ignoring further questions, Sadeas continued on his way. Adolin Kholin had a duel today, and he’d decided not to miss it, just in case the youth embarrassed himself again.
* * *
A few hours later, Sadeas settled down into his place in the dueling arena, tugging at the stock on his neck. Insufferable things—fashionable, but insufferable. He would never tell a soul, not even Ialai, that he secretly wished he could just go about in a simple uniform like Dalinar.
He couldn’t ever do that, of course. Not just because he wouldn’t be seen bowing to the Codes and the king’s authority, but because a military uniform was actually the wrong uniform for these days. The battles they fought for Alethkar at the moment weren’t battles with sword and shield.
It was important to dress the part when you had a role to play. Dalinar’s military outfits proved he was lost, that he didn’t understand the game he was playing.
Sadeas leaned back to wait as whispers filled the arena like water in a bowl. A large attendance today. Adolin’s stunt in his previous duel had drawn attention, and anything novel was of interest to the court. Sadeas’s seat had a space cleared around it to give him extra room and privacy, though it was really just a simple chair built onto the stone bleachers of this pit of an arena.
He hated how his body felt outside of Shardplate, and he hated more how he looked. Once, he’d turned heads as he walked. His power had filled a room; everyone had looked to him, and many had lusted when seeing him. Lusted for his power, for who he was.
He was losing that. Oh, he was still powerful—perhaps more so. But the look in their eyes was different. And every way of responding to his loss of youthfulness made him look petulant.
He was dying, step by step. Like every man, true, but he felt that death looming. Decades away, hopefully, but it cast a long, long shadow. The only path to immortality was through conquest.
Rustling cloth announced Ialai slipping into the seat beside his. Sadeas reached out absently, resting his hand on the small of her back and scratching at that place she liked. Her name was symmetrical. A tiny bit of blasphemy from her parents—some people dared imply such holiness of their children. Sadeas liked those types. Indeed, the name was what had first intrigued him about her.
“Mmmm,” his wife said with a sigh. “Very nice. The duel hasn’t started yet, I see.”
“Mere moments away, I believe.”
“Good. I can’t stand waiting. I hear you gave away the gemheart you captured today.”
“Threw it at Hatham’s feet and rode away, as if I didn’t have a care.”
“Clever. I should have seen that as an option. You’ll undermine Dalinar’s claim that we only resist him because of our greed.”
Below, Adolin finally stepped out onto the field, wearing his blue Shardplate. Some of the lighteyes clapped politely. Across the way, Eranniv left his own preparatory room, his polished Plate its natural color except across the breastplate, which he’d painted a deep black.
Sadeas narrowed his eyes, still scratching Ialai’s back. “This duel should not even be happening,” he said. “Everyone was supposed to be too afraid, or too dismissive, to accept his challenges.”
“Idiots,” Ialai said softly. “They know, Torol, what they’re supposed to do—I’ve dropped the right hints and promises. And yet every one of them secretly wants to be the man who brings down Adolin. Duelists are not a particularly dependable lot. They are brash, hotheaded, and care too much about showing off and gaining renown.”
“His father’s plan cannot be allowed to work,” Sadeas said.
“It won’t.”
Sadeas glanced at where Dalinar had set up. Sadeas’s own position was not too far away—within shouting distance. Dalinar didn’t look at him.
“I built this kingdom,” Sadeas said softly. “I know how fragile it is, Ialai. It should not be so difficult to knock the thing down.” That would be the only way to properly build it anew. Like reforging a weapon. You melted down the remnants of the old before you created the replacement.
The duel began down below, Adolin striding across the sands toward Eranniv, who wielded old Gavilar’s Blade, with its wicked design. Adolin engaged too quickly. Was the boy that eager?
In the crowd, lighteyes grew quiet and darkeyes shouted, eager for another display like last time. However, this didn’t devolve into a wrestling match. The two exchanged testing blows and Adolin backed away, having taken a hit on his shoulder.
Sloppy, Sadeas thought.
“I finally discovered the nature of that disturbance at the king’s chambers two weeks ago,” Ialai noted.
Sadeas smiled, eyes still on the bout. “Of course you did.”
“Assassination attempt,” she said. “Someone sabotaged the king’s balcony in a crude attempt at dropping him a hundred feet to the rocks. From what I hear, it nearly worked.”
“Not so crude then, if it almost killed him.”
“Pardon, Torol, but almost is a big distinction in assassinations.”
True.
Sadeas searched within himself, seeking some sign of emotion at hearing that Elhokar had almost died. He found none beside a faint sense of pity. He was fond of the boy, but to rebuild Alethkar, all vestiges of former rule would need to be removed. Elhokar would need to die. Preferably in a quiet manner, after Dalinar had been dealt with. Sadeas expected he’d have to cut the boy’s throat himself, out of respect for old Gavilar.
“Who commissioned the assassins, do you suppose?” Sadeas asked, speaking softly enough that—with the buffer his guards kept around their seats—he didn’t have to worry about being overheard.
“Hard to tell,” Ialai replied, scooting to the side and twisting to get him to scratch a different part of her back. “It wouldn’t be Ruthar or Aladar.”